The fiery wick of concepts and notions,
is a pervious string affixed inside a stick of wax,
ablaze with consciousness in technicolor
of burning blue and yearning yellow alike.
The wax melts like an oblation feasted upon,
the wick blackens along with the growth of nation
but the regime pays no attention to this all,
and the ground zero for enlightenment threatens to fall.
And while wind blows as hard as an August gust of breath,
the infamous invisible hand claps and sweeps its way,
across the riverbanks and into the village flea,
to serve those perched on top of the hierarchy.
And, too, the candlelight sways along with the breeze,
too little of a flame to withstand such turbulence
fade to black, that is all there will be
if by the candlelight, the hand and the monarchs interfere.